


The Sweet Science

by Luna



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: Backstory, Coming Out, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna/pseuds/Luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-movie. Some things Brendan knows in his blood, and some things Frank has to teach him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweet Science

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vlieger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/gifts).



Night of Brendan's fastest win ever. A first round KO, right uppercut to the jaw. It was only a preliminary, but now he's walking like there's gold around his waist. Swaggering through a strip mall near South Beach, palm trees in the parking lot, a warm breeze on his cheek.

"We should move down here," he says into the phone.

Tess laughs. "Don't tempt me, it's supposed to snow tomorrow."

"Screw tomorrow, baby, get in the car now, start driving."

"I wish," she says. "I wish I could've been there tonight. I was a nervous wreck at work. And I went crazy when you texted me. I might even have jumped up on the bar."

"Ooh," he says, "which panties were you wearing?"

From somewhere behind him, Frank calls out, "Whoa, whoa, no talking dirty on my cell."

Brendan flips him off without turning around and walks on, stepping into a spill of orange neon light. "Hey, guess what? I'm gonna get a tattoo."

"Of what?"

He checks out the flash in the shop window. "Mermaid?"

"Not if you want to get laid when you get home," Tess says. She makes a sound that's one part giggle, one part yawn. He pictures her in bed, stretching one arm over her head, lying there naked even though he knows their apartment is freezing cold.

"No mermaids," he says. "Better idea. Big back piece, says _One Punch Conlon._ "

"Maybe wait on the tattoo until you sober up, huh?"

"That obvious?"

"That ovvioush?" she echoes. "Call me from the airport. I love you."

" _Love_ you," he says. The phone blinks off and he looks up at the streetlights like they're stars. "Love this place!"

"All right, One Punch," Frank says. He comes up behind Brendan, throws an arm around his shoulders. "One Drink, more like it. If I knew you were such a sorority girl--"

"Sorority girls drink on the regular," Brendan says. "I don't."

Not since the last couple years of high school, when getting out of the house unscathed usually meant doing a shot with Paddy. And one to sleep, and soon, one to wake up. He got to like the way it warmed his throat and blunted the sharp edges, but he knew where that road would dead-end. So he doesn't touch hard liquor anymore, except once in a while after a fight, when something's got to cut the adrenaline.

And at least he's not alone. Frank is steering him away from the tattoo shop. "Only I wouldn't have sprung for the whole bottle," he says, holding it up, bright tequila at half-mast.

"Aw, come on," Brendan says. He drops the phone into the pocket on Frank's T-shirt and slugs him lightly in the chest. "We're rich tonight."

Frank raises his eyebrows. "See what happens when you listen to me?"

"It wasn't you taught me to throw a punch."

"No. I only had to teach you literally everything else you know. Let's go."

They cross the parking lot, Brendan staying close on Frank's heels to keep himself going in a straight line. To get to the motel they have to jog across four lanes of highway, mostly empty so late, but it wouldn't matter: nothing can hit Brendan right now. And it's luck, yeah, and it's everything that his father could never have taught him. Kickboxing, jiujitsu, when to strike, when to breathe, how to breathe. He doesn't say thanks. The word is too small.

It's a shitty motel with no cable, but the courtyard's nice, lots of potted ferns and a swimming pool lit up from underwater. Frank settles down into a wicker chair. Brendan paces, shadowboxing his way along the pool's edge. "Feels kinda strange," he says. "We spent so long working up to tonight and then _wham_ \--"

"Blue balls, yeah," Frank says, and takes a long pull from the bottle. "How soon do you think you can go again?"

Brendan shakes his head, not sure he heard that right. "How soon you got? When we get home, I'm looking at four months of shoveling snow and Chem homework. Don't laugh." But Frank is laughing, of course, so Brendan walks over, takes the bottle, swigs until the tequila melts away the idea of winter. "Put me in, Coach," he says. "I'm ready to play."

Frank tips his chair way back, his smile flickering in the underwater light. "Vegas. April second."

"All right," Brendan says, then rocks onto his heels. "That's, wait, that's--"

"Uh huh."

That's big time, bright lights; he squints just to consider it. "Are we talking about some roller rink a mile off the Strip, or--"

"Mandalay Bay," Frank says. "Second fight, main card. Yes. Yes, now gimme that before you hurt yourself."

He holds out the bottle, but won't loosen his grip, a little tug-of-war and Frank comes up out of the chair. Playing along, but serious in the eyes. So this is real.

"We have a shot," he says, to hear it out loud.

"A shot at a shot, Brendan," Frank says. "If you can tear yourself away from your Bunsen burner."

Brendan opens his hands, lets out a big noise, both cheer and battle cry. And the sky breaks open.

A thunderstorm out of nowhere, out of the Old Testament. Sheets of lightning, sheets of rain. They run for Brendan's room, tripping with the bottle, fumbling with the key card, shouting, "I will submit this door," and giggling and the card finally works. Too late. They're drenched to the skin, a cold river running down Brendan's back. He shakes himself like a dog. "Jeez," he says, "I was about to move here for the weather."

Frank grabs him by the neck and kisses him.

The tequila makes his mouth taste like smoke, that hot and strange. Brendan kisses back for a few seconds, giving into pure reflex, and then he wrenches himself free. His head is spinning so fast. He finds a wall and leans hard into it, rubs his hands over his face, frozen fingers and burned tongue.

"Fuck," he says, "what the fuck, what the--"

"Breathe," Frank says.

Lightning strikes somewhere near enough that the thunder slams down right on top of them. Frank closes the door, turns on the overhead light. He squares himself up and faces Brendan, chin raised and ready, eyes lost in shadow.

"It's okay," he says, hoarsely. "You're okay. We just, we waded a little too deep into Lake Patrón." He waves the near-empty bottle. "Happens to the best. Forgotten, yeah?"

Brendan thuds the back of his head against the wall. He's never kissed a man before, never been this close to anyone but--but he's not forgetting, he's remembering. His heart climbs into his throat. The last time he saw his brother, Tommy looked like this, boxer's stance and bruised mouth, dark eyes saying both _please_ and _fuck you_. Just out of reach.

He swallows a couple times, surfacing. "You," he says to Frank. "You're what, gay?"

Without blinking, Frank tips the bottle up, drains it. Sighs. "No one told you?"

"No, no one told me. _You_ never told me." Brendan crosses his arms, feeling the red rise into his face. "I've been naked in front of you plenty--"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Frank says, and throws the bottle on the floor.

It doesn't break. It doesn't have to. The eyes are enough. How many times has Frank yelled at him to listen? He's listening now, forcing himself to lower his arms.

Frank prods the bottle with his toe. "I'm sorry," he says. "But that kind of garbage, that's why you didn't know."

Brendan looks at the ceiling, playing back the kind of language he's thrown around in the gym, in the cage. He needs to say he's sorry, too, but he keeps his fucking mouth shut.

"You ever see me fight?" Frank asks. Brendan nods. "I was fast, right? Yeah. I came up in the south Bronx, you know, you run until you're big enough to hit back. Hit back enough, hit _hard_ enough, and nobody cares who you're banging, or at least they don't talk." He cards a hand through his hair, the rain still hanging on him. "Helps if you're making money. For a while there, I was somebody you didn't fuck with."

Brendan shrugs off the wall. "I didn't mean anything--"

"I know," Frank says, "I know you don't know any better. Catholic school, right?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." Frank leans back against the closed door. "But it's been a long time since my last confession."

And it's not really funny, but they both laugh anyway. The room isn't spinning quite so fast anymore, and Brendan manages to step into the bathroom and find a couple of sandpaper-rough towels. He hands one over to Frank and turns away as they both peel their shirts off, eye contact too weird now. "You're still somebody," he says.

"Nah, I lost a step," Frank says. "Figured I'd get out before someone kicked my frontal lobe in for me. I gotta make this business happen, and I will, but I need--"

He stops. Brendan glances at him. With his shoulders bared, biceps gleaming under black ink, Frank looks like he could go to war any second, lost step or no lost step.

"Aw, fuck it," he says. "I need you, Brendan. I need kids like you to come to me and win for me. And I do not have time to be the gay coach. The one gay coach, teaching everybody it's okay to shake my hand."

Brendan shivers and arranges the towel around his neck, wishing there was more tequila. "But you thought I knew," he says.

Frank draws in a sharp breath, and there, there's another flash of Tommy in his face, the set of his jaw like he'd rather be beaten than say another word. Then Frank smiles. "Not until tonight," he says. "You always get this flirty when you're drunk?"

"I don't drink," Brendan says, but it's not what he means, his voice slurred and dumb and he's got to do better than this. He paces around to the foot of the bed. "I was fourteen when I met Tess," he says. Just saying her name, he can feel her holding his hand. "Fifteen when I got the nerve to ask her out. She's, she's all I've ever had, and I don't, I would never--"

"Seriously?" Frank says. "This isn't awkward enough? I have to hear how much you love your wife?"

"I do love her."

"Congratulations." Frank rolls the towel around his wet shirt, heads for the door. "You're straight. You're happy. I get it."

"No, you don't," Brendan says. He looks at the bed, suddenly wanting with his whole heart to lie down and sleep all of this off. He closes his fingers around Tess's imagined ones. She always knows when to hold on tight. "I know a lifeline when I see one," he says. "And she's it for me. So I stay in my lane. I don't let myself think about alternatives. If I did--I might, Frank, if I could. But I stay in my lane."

Frank has his chin up again, staring at him, somehow miles away in a room so small they're running out of oxygen. In the silence he hears the rain dying down, the storm blowing itself out.

"So, what," Frank says, at last. "If you'd suck a dick, it'd be mine?"

Brendan coughs, opens his eyes wide. "That's not exactly what I'm trying to say."

"Good." Frank takes a couple steps closer, his shadow looming across the floor. "Because that's no use to either of us. It's some Catholic boy bullshit. And I'd hate to have to kick your ass."

It's a genuine threat, but it's also kind of an escape hatch. Brendan takes a deep breath and lets it drift out through his nose. Shutting the mental image away. "You're an old man," he says. "You need someone's ass kicked, I'll take care of it for you."

Frank shakes his head. His smile comes back, slow, tired. "Save something for Vegas."

There are so many things Brendan wants to say that his chest hurts. I'm sorry. Thank you. I will. I would.

He raises his fist, pounds his heart, holds it out.

"Goodnight," Frank says.

Brendan doesn't move. Frank rolls his eyes, reaches out to bump knuckles with him.

"Goodnight," Brendan says, returning the smile.

He sits down on the bed, shuts his eyes, and hears Frank say, walking out, "One Punch Conlon, goddamn." Or maybe he's already asleep. Maybe that's why it rings so clearly, his, his father's name. Tess's name too, now. Tommy's name, still.

"Hey, Frank," he says, or thinks he says, "there's my tattoo."

On the precipice of a dream it all makes perfect sense. This is what will hold him together, keep him on his path, everything he fights for, written on his good right arm. He's throwing that knockout punch. He's raising it up in victory. He's flying safely home.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this assignment like I loved this movie, and if time weren't a factor I could write buckets more about these characters. Maybe someday I will. Meanwhile, I received excellent betas from Jae, Makioka and Pene, and epic handholding from Katie and Annelise. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
